Riddle finds that he's practically melting under Cater, his mind fogged both with the illness and with his own desire for the man atop him. As Cater's lips part, it's only a second before Riddle's tongue darts out, slipping into his mouth and attempting to tangle with his. Something that Cater could count on with Riddle was a vocal protest if anything got to a point where he was uncomfortable or didn't like it. The Queen was never quiet about his own thoughts, his own opinions.

Those careful fingers against the skin of his thigh... Riddle seems to lean into the touch, even as his leg was guided to allow Cater to spread his legs, to get between them, to pull him close. Those small fingers stay tangled in his hair, his other hand moving down to the bottom hem of Cater's shirt, pushing up under it to allow his hand to wander up along his skin, bringing the shirt up with it.

Seems he has little shame in getting handy himself, at least for right now.